


Press Play

by CosmicZombie



Category: Sports RPF, Tennis RPF
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mischa is so done with Sascha's shit, Sascha is really bad at hiding his feelings, Slow Burn, but super talented at denying them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 16:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20085421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicZombie/pseuds/CosmicZombie
Summary: Stefanos is a dick. But Sascha can't stop watching his vlogs. It's just because he hates him, okay?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not entirely sure how this happened, but I've had so fun much with it. I truly love these two and their ridiculousness more than words can express. This is the first chapter of four. I really hope it's okay, let me know if you'd like me to post more! Any feedback is very welcome and would make my day <3 
> 
> DISCLAIMER: This is all lies. Apart from the stuff about Stefanos's hair. 
> 
> (also get ready for lots of obscure references to Stef's vlogs and a shocking disregard for geography and the ATP calendar)

1

Quite honestly, Sascha wasn’t exactly sure how it started.

Okay, that was a lie. He knew exactly how it had started. He’d pressed play. For some unknown, horrendous reason, he’d pressed play. And that was how he’d ended up sprawled across his hotel bed at 2am, three hours into Stefanos Tsitsipas’s YouTube vlogs.

It was the one in Perth with the quokkas and the jolty boat ride, to be precise. And the stupid hat. Which didn’t narrow it down, really. Sascha had watched more than enough over the past few hours to feel confident that Tsitsipas had an unprecedented number of extremely silly hats. And opinions, actually. Although, given the fact Sascha had just spent the entirety of his evening voluntarily listening to them, he wasn’t quite sure he had much right to comment.

Outside his hotel room window the city lights rushed endlessly, the night upside down as though all the stars had fallen to the ground. Groaning tiredly, Sascha took off his glasses to rub his eyes in frustration, trying to ignore the way Tsitsipas was laughing elatedly with his little sister on screen. He glowered mutinously at their happy faces. His head was aching with exhaustion, his stomach was churning emptily from having skipped dinner, and there was a knot of panic in his chest –but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to stop watching.

Naturally, Tsitsipas was entirely to blame for the whole thing. If he hadn’t – quite unreasonably – beaten Sascha earlier that day, none of this would have happened. Sascha would have been out at one of his favourite restaurants with his family, having celebratory drinks forced on him by Marcelo, or being slobbered all over by Lovik. But instead, he was sitting in the darkness of his room listening to Tsitsipas talk about drones. And quite honestly, trying to fend off an existential crisis about just why the hell he was watching Stefanos fucking Tsitsipas vlogging on top of post-loss blues was not Sascha’s idea of a fun night in.

It wasn’t unusual for Sascha to go into hermit mode after a defeat, but today had been worse than usual. Admittedly, he never dealt with losing particularly well, but there was something about losing to Tsitsipas that got under his skin in a way losing to any of the other players on tour never did. Maybe it was because Tsitsipas still played with the fearlessness which Sascha had somehow grown out of, and seemed to elude him the more he chased it. Maybe it was because commentators and interviewers constantly compared them to each other, with Tsitsipas – somehow – always coming off better even though he was ranked lower. Or maybe it was just because Tsitsipas was a dick. Because he was, obviously. His hair was stupid and golden and just about as pretentious as his opinions, and he was so goddamn _nice_ all the time. Just because his vlogs were inexplicably addictive didn’t stop him from being the biggest idiot Sascha had ever had the misfortune to play.

But Sascha had to admit whatever Tsitsipas lacked on court he made up for with his camera skills. It was past two in the morning and Sascha’s eyes were aching with exhaustion, but he couldn’t look away. And okay, yeah, he’d vaguely heard about Tsitsipas’s vlogs on tour, but he’d pictured something amateur and self-absorbed rather than the – well, _artistry_ – of his travel documentaries. They were beautiful and unique and atmospheric, and Sascha hadn’t meant to get hooked on them but there was something compelling about the freedom with which Tsitsipas presented the world around him.

Sascha had only clicked on the first one to vindicate the hatred that was still bubbling through him post-match. But as he watched, he’d found himself unwillingly envying the peacefulness with which Tsitsipas seemed to approach everything, wondering what it would be like to live inside a mind that didn’t box itself in. Even just watching them was strangely meditative, and made Sascha feel somehow freed from his own head. Tsitsipas could make grey streets and airport lounges seem fascinating, and Sascha could almost feel the Greek heat baking into his skin or taste the bitter tang of hotel coffee as he watched. Tsitsipas held his world in his hands and offered it out for everyone to breathe in, and Sascha found himself unwillingly captivated.

Four in and Sascha had to admit maybe he was no longer watching them merely to justify his hatred of Tsitsipas. Eleven in and he was starting to feel mildly panicked. Eighteen in and a strange sort of resignation had curbed the sharp edges of panic.

Twenty two and dawn was beginning to lighten the darkness outside his hotel window. Sascha clicked replay on “CARRIBEAN BREEZE” and knew he was utterly, utterly fucked.

-

“Sasch?” Sascha was roused from slumber what felt like moments later by his brother’s voice and the sound of his hotel room door opening.

“Mmphf…?” Sascha grumbled sleepily, rolling over onto his stomach and opening his eyes blearily. Pale early morning light slanted through the half-drawn blinds, casting geometric lines across the hotel carpet. His head ached dully from sleeplessness and he could feel the indentation of his laptop cord on his cheek where he’d fallen asleep on it. He felt about as good as he'd expect to if he'd been hit in the face by one of Isner's serves. 

“Christ, Sasch, how much sleep did you get?” Mischa asked, but there was no accusation in his tone, only gentle concern. He never judged Sascha for his self-destructive behaviours, which was probably why he was the only one Sascha let see them.

“Not…” Sascha groaned, sitting up and pushing a hand through his tousled hair, “Not a whole lot. What time is it? Are we hitting today?”

“Yeah, in half an hour,” Mischa replied. He was leaning casually against the doorframe, watching Sascha with a hint of concern colouring his ice blue gaze. Then his eyes narrowed, gaze shifting away from Sascha for a moment. “What – Sasch, is that Tsitsipas raving about gelato?”

Sascha glanced blearily at his laptop which was still open on his bed and saw, to his horror, Tsitsipas’s grinning face as he ate a ridiculously luxurious looking ice cream in the cobbled, sunlit streets of Crete. He was wearing a ridiculous hat that made him look like an overly enthusiastic tourist. Cheeks burning red, Sascha launched himself across the bed and slammed his laptop shut. “No,” he lied, heart racing unpleasantly, “Absolutely not. I was just watching – I can’t remember. I fell asleep, it must have gone onto auto play. You know the way YouTube does that.”

Mischa’s eyebrows raised almost imperceptibly. “Okay,” he said slowly, looking mildly concerned for Sascha’s sanity. Quite honestly, Sascha didn’t blame him. He picked Sascha’s gym gear off the dresser and threw it in his direction. “Sure. Get dressed and meet me downstairs once you've thought up a more convincing excuse.”

Sascha spluttered helplessly at the door Mischa had closed behind him for a good two minutes before his brain clunked into gear, and he dragged himself out of bed with a sense of impending dread.

-

All in all, it wasn’t one of their better practice sessions. It was clammy and humid on court despite the earliness of the hour, and Mischa was determined to get in much more practice than Sascha wanted to. He felt as though he’d barely slept, and there was a not-so-tiny knot of panic in his that wasn’t improved by Mischa’s insistence they practice serving and volleying. Sascha had spent so much of the past twelve hours looking at Tsitsipas’s goddamn face that whenever he closed his eyes it was somehow imprinted onto his brain, which unhelpfully caused him to miss just about every single ball he tried to hit.

“What’s up with you today, Sasch?” Mischa asked, coming over to the net after Sascha managed to hit the ball he was trying to volley into his own face for the third time in twenty minutes. “I know you’re allergic to volleying, but this is a whole new level even for you.”

“Nothing’s up,” Sascha shrugged mutinously, glaring at the offending ball as it bounced cheerfully across the court. “I just didn’t sleep much, that’s all.”

“Mum was worried when you didn’t show up to dinner last night,” Mischa said, after a moment’s careful consideration. He was looking at Sascha, the ice blue of his eyes full of quiet kindness. The implied, _I was worried about you_, hung between them in the air and made Sascha’s skin prickle with guilt. It wasn’t often he went off grid from Mischa, even if it was only for a night.

“I just didn’t feel like seeing anyone,” Sascha muttered, fiddling with the strings of his racquet. He knew Mischa could hear the inferred apology without having to voice it explicitly.

“You played really well yesterday, Sasch,” Mischa told him, gently, “He just –”

“Played better?” Sascha sneered, twanging the strings so hard his fingers stung and looking up challengingly at Mischa.

Mischa, used to twenty two years of sharp comments and the occasional tennis ball to the face, looked completely unfazed. “Just because he can play better than you on one day doesn’t mean he’s a better player than you, Sasch.”

“I know he’s not a better player than me,” Sascha snorted incredulously. “I don’t even think he played better than me yesterday, I was just playing shit and that’s what frustrates me,” he lied, looking down at his racquet again. “I don’t even understand how he’s in the top ten,”he muttered, moodily. 

Mischa looked at Sascha as though seeing something Sascha wasn’t aware of. It was a very familiar, older-brotherly look, the one that appeared whenever he thought Sascha was talking about something he wasn’t old enough to understand. Which was more often that Sascha would like, given the fact he was now twenty two years old and in the top five. 

Shrugging his shoulders mutinously, he avoided Mischa's gaze and twirled his racquet in his grasp. “Look, I just think he’s overrated. I don’t know why everyone thinks he’s so fucking cool. He’s mediocre at best on court, and his opinions are worse than his facial hair,” Sascha complained, hitting a ball aimlessly cross-court.

“You are not in a position to pass judgement about facial hair,” Mischa said, firmly. “Now stop whining about Tsitsipas and let’s try again with the serves and volleys.”

Sascha glared resentfully at Mischa's back as the latter turned to go back to his side of the court. After a moment cursing Mischa and his ability to grow a non-patchy beard whenever the damn hell he liked, Sascha reluctantly returned to his position behind the baseline and focused on hitting as many serves as fast and hard as he could. It was almost enough to block out the way Tsitsipas somehow kept intruding into his thoughts, and by the time they walked off the practice court an hour later, drenched in sweat and talking about Mischa’s upcoming match against Raonic, Sascha felt calmer than he had since yesterday’s match. Okay, yeah, he’d watched some of Tsitsipas’s vlogs last night. So what? It was no big deal. He had it totally under control.

It was all going to be fine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since I posted the first part of this! I got sidetracked a bit by life and also by the other fic I've been writing. Anyway, I'm here at last with the next bit and I had so much fun writing it! 
> 
> I also just want to say an absolutely massive thank you for all the lovely comments you left on the last chapter - I honestly can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear what you think. So thank you, so much, to all of you who took the time to comment/leave kudos <3 Also big thanks to all my Saschanos mutuals on twitter... your encouragement means so much and you are absolutely to blame for how deep I am in with this ship lol. 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this instalment, I'll make sure there more to come much sooner this time! As always, I'd love love love to know what you think. Feedback truly makes my day <3

It was, as it turned out, not entirely fine. While smashing aces down the court towards Mischa had temporarily erased Tsitsipas’s face from Sascha’s mind, the respite sadly proved to be short lived. Much to Sascha’s distress, all it took was the five minute walk from the locker room to the juice bar for Tsitsipas’s face to become annoyingly present once more. Mainly because _Tsitsipas was annoyingly present_. Right there. Sitting in the juice bar Sascha had stupidly let Mischa drag him to. He was by the window, wearing the same goddamn Adidas t-shirt Sascha had worn to bed the night before and an infuriatingly contented expression, like he was completely unaware of the considerable toll he was taking on Sascha’s already limited sanity.

“We have to leave,” Sascha hissed abruptly at Mischa in panic, tugging urgently at his brother’s t-shirt so that Mischa turned round, confusion colouring his gaze.

“What?”

“We have to go,” Sascha blurted, edgily eyeing Tsitsipas, who thankfully seemed so engrossed in instagramming his smoothie that he hadn’t appeared to notice them. Sascha’s heart was thudding so fast in his chest he felt as though he was about to walk on court for a final. “_Now_,” he implored his brother, glancing tensely over Mischa’s shoulder.

“Why?” Mischa demanded, following Sascha’s gaze across the room. He narrowed his eyes in understanding. “Are you wanting to avoid Tsitsipas because you lost to him yesterday or because you were watching a montage of him eating ice cream this morning?”

Sascha flushed. “I was _not_ watching him eating ice cream. I was not watching him, full stop. Christ, Mischa. I’m just tired, okay?” he insisted, subtly bending his knees slightly to use Mischa as a human shield from view in case Tsitsipas looked up and wishing, for possibly the first time in his life, that he’d never outgrown Mischa. “I want to crash before my training with Jez.”

“Two minutes ago you couldn’t care less about your session with Jez. All you cared about was getting one of those disgusting spinach smoothies you claim to love,” Mischa raised his eyebrows, and firmly but not unkindly prised Sascha’s fingers away from the panicked grip on his t-shirt. “So that’s what we’re going to do. Only I’m going to get one that actually tastes good and doesn’t, you know, have green mulch in it.” He hoisted his bag more securely onto his shoulder and, before Sascha could pull him back, moved towards the counter, leaving Sascha standing by the display.

“Mischa,” Sascha hissed angrily, but he didn’t dare raise his voice. He glanced fearfully across the room, but Tsitsipas was still absorbed in his phone. Fleetingly, Sascha wondered if he was sitting alone or waiting for someone, and if he was just by himself how he could look so peaceful. Sascha hated sitting by himself in cafes, but then he’d never been good at being in his own presence. Tsitsipas looked infuriatingly content in his solitude.

“Sasch, do you want a bagel too?” Mischa called from the counter, startling Sascha from his thoughts. Across the room, Tsitsipas glanced up from his phone, and instinctively, Sascha ducked behind the nearest available obstacle.

Unfortunately, said obstacle just happened to be Grigor Dimitrov.

“Well hello there, Sascha,” Grigor grinned, slapping Sascha cheerfully on the back. Inwardly, Sascha groaned. Grigor Dimitrov was undoubtedly the most ostentatious obstacles he could have chosen.

“Shhhh,” Sasha urged him, crouching down awkwardly so that his height was concealed behind Grigor’s much smaller frame. Why didn’t he have taller friends? He knew there was a reason Melo was his favourite.

“Hey, Mischa, have you lost the smaller Zverev?” Grigor called loudly, waving in Mischa’s direction. Across the café, Tsitsipas was looking round bemusedly at the noisy interchange, but mercifully hadn’t seemed to notice Sascha cowering behind Grigor. “I’ve got him here if you want him.”

Mischa looked despairingly at where Sascha was skulking, red-faced and humiliated, behind Grigor, using one of the menus to shield the top of his head where Grigor’s height betrayed him. “It’s okay,” Mischa sighed, gathering up the food he’d just paid for. “You can keep him.”

-

Sadly, Sascha’s day did not improve. He was so traumatised by having to use Grigor Dimitrov as a human shield that he couldn’t even enjoy his smoothie. Mischa, seeming to have taken mercy on him, had suggested that they all sit outside with their food – but even in the warm sunshine Sascha couldn’t relax. He picked listlessly at the fruit salad Mischa had bought him, eyeing the café doors edgily for Tsitsipas’s distinctive curls.

“Rough match yesterday, smaller Zverev,” Grigor said, consolingly stealing one of Sascha’s pieces of melon and patting him on the back.

Sascha grimaced around a mouthful of smoothie. “Yeah. Should’ve come through it.”

“Nah, these things happen. Plus the kid is actually pretty good,” Grigor shrugged around a mouthful of his smoked salmon bagel. Beside him, Mischa jerked one shoulder in reluctant agreement. 

“As good as me?” Sascha demanded hotly. “Because as far as I can tell, he spends more conditioning his goddamn hair than he does on court.”

“He must have no hours left in the day for sleep, then, because he spends a hell of a lot of his day practicing,” Grigor said, fairly.

“How the fuck do you know so much about him, what do you do, watch his vlogs?” Sascha sneered snappily. Then he met Mischa’s expression across the table and promptly stopped.

“I’ve seen a couple,” Grigor shrugged. “He’s actually pretty talented.”

“If you can call prancing around in front of a camera talented and spouting useless opinions, then sure, he’s a genius,” Sascha muttered moodily, stabbing a piece of mango vindictively. His remark was met with silence, and he looked up demandingly to see Mischa and Grigor exchanging a look. It was a very older brotherly look. “What?” he snapped, accusingly, brandishing his plastic fork in their direction. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You seem to have a very informed opinion about these vlogs,” Mischa said slowly, like the utter traitor he was.

Sascha flushed, heart thudding as he shrugged as casually as he could manage. “I think the whole concept of vlogging is problematic,” he replied, trying not to acknowledge the fact he was choking on a piece of strawberry. He slapped away Grigor angrily, who had helpfully leant over to try and pat him on the back. “I’m talking about the medium vlogs as a social platform. Tsitsipas is irrelevant.”

Grigor snorted into his smoothie, but remained silent when he caught Sascha’s glare.

“So you’ve never seen one of Tsitsipas’s vlogs, then, Sasch?” Mischa asked, an evil glint in his eye, and oh god this was his long plotted revenge for that time Sascha had cut the strings of his favourite racquet as a child. Sascha was going down. Mischa indulged him so often it was dangerously easy to forget how dirty he fought. 

Refusing to address the fact his cheeks were burning, Sascha got to his feet. “I refuse to dignify such an insulting question with an answer,” he spluttered, grabbing his bag. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a training session with Jez and much more important things to think about.”

He tried to ignore the way Mischa and Grigor’s laughter followed him all the way into the lockers.

-

If Sascha had thought the whole café debacle was a disaster, things became rapidly even more disastrous when he was left to his own devices that evening. He’d told himself that there was no way he was ever going to so much as click on Tsitsipas’s YouTube channel again, but then “DON’T VLOG WHILE DRIVING” had popped up on his suggestions and really it was YouTube’s fault and not Sascha’s that it somehow ended up playing.

The video opened with a frame of Tsitsipas sitting in the middle of a pavement getting in everyone’s way just to show off his stupid, gorgeous hair, and Sascha settled down under his duvet, blowing on the steaming mug of mint tea he’d just made. For a few moments, it was just yet more of Tsitsipas looking thoughtful and deep in sunny locations – but then it flicked to a hotel room, impersonal and in neutral tones, bathed in early morning light. Then Tsitsipas flung open the French windows of the villa, and Sascha promptly inhaled rather a large quantity of his mint tea.

Much to his embarrassment, it wasn’t the French windows which had prompted his inability to remember normal cognitive functions like swallowing. Morning light settling softly on Tsitsipas’s face and making it glow, the Greek player stood in the sunrise with artfully tousled hair and what were possibly the tightest boxers Sascha had ever laid eyes on. A deep forest green, they brought out the gold tones of Tsitsipas’s muscled thighs and left _nothing_ to the imagination. The pert curve of his ass was thrown into sharp relief, and Sascha could see with painstaking clarity the line of Tsitsipas’s bulging cock through the thin material of his boxers that seemed to be struggling to contain it.

With a jolt of horror, Sascha abruptly realised that he was hard. He stared at the screen for several beats as Tsitsipas bent over the sink to brush his teeth, and then slammed his laptop shut, breathing hard and feeling as though he was experiencing some kind of existential crisis. Utterly appalled, he stared down uncomprehendingly at his tenting jogger bottoms.

Of course, it had anything to do with Tsitsipas. Clearly. It was just a horrible, horrible coincidence. Sascha had obviously pissed off the universe in some strange way and now it was repaying him with the curse of double faults and mistimed erections. It had nothing to do with _Tsitsipas_. Sascha didn’t even like men, let alone stupid, sun-kissed, golden-haired, Greek ones. Although he had to admit, if men meant ones like Stefanos, he could almost see the appeal.

Before his thoughts could progress any further, Sascha flung the covers back and fled from the room.

-

By the following morning, he had it all rationalised out. It was nothing more than a coincidence. Coincidences happened all the time. Sascha had been tired, and stressed, and it wasn’t his fault if Tsitsipas and his stupid hair had been on his mind. He was a professional. It was totally and completely normally to think about your opponents in a state of undress.

Sascha comforted himself with this and with an extra-large cappuccino as he sat with Mischa in a café near their hotel, waiting for the draw for Paris to come out.

“Fuck,” Mischa groaned, pressing impatiently at the spacebar of his laptop. “Battery’s dead. I swear this thing is on its last legs. Sasch, do you have yours with you? I really want to check if my doubles draw’s out yet, it was meant to be this afternoon.”

“Sure,” Sascha shrugged, one earbud still in. He was sprawled sideways in the chair by the window, staring out at the rain dribbling listlessly down the grey glass and the rush of city lights blurred by its moisture. “It’s in my bag, help yourself.”

“Thanks,” Mischa replied gratefully, unzipping Sascha’s bag which was sitting on the chair between them. Sascha didn’t bother to look round, he and Mischa used each other’s stuff so often they each knew most of each other’s passwords off by heart.

Suddenly, the knowledge of what Sascha had last had open on his laptop hit him at full force and he launched himself out of the chair and wrested the laptop out of a bewildered Mischa’s hands.

“Sorry –” Sascha blurted, clutching his laptop protectively. “I just remembered – it’s out of battery too. Totally dead. No idea what’s up with it lately.”

Mischa narrowed his eyes. “I’ve no idea what’s up with _you_ lately, Sasch.”

“There’s nothing up with me,” Sascha argued defensively. “My laptop’s just being a bitch.”

“You know you don’t need to be embarrassed, I’ve opened your laptop to porn more times than I can count, I’m almost expecting it at this point,” Mischa said, rolling his eyes.

“It wasn’t porn,” Sascha squeaked, feeling his cheeks go, if possible, even redder.

“Sasch, if you jerk off to it then its porn,” Mischa rolled his eyes again. “Christ, there’s no need to look so scandalized about it. Okay granted, you’re my brother so we don’t have to talk about it, but you don’t need to look quite so traumatised. We all do it.”

“I’m not traumatised,” Sascha said, hysterically, “And it wasn’t porn. It was just a documentary. About scenery. And life. Nothing remotely sexual.”

“Okay,” Mischa held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, Christ.” He shook his head disbelievingly, and got to his feet. “I need another coffee. Want one?”

Wordlessly, Sascha shook his head. His heart was racing, and it really wasn’t helping that every time he closed his eyes he was faced with the image of Tsitsipas in impossibly tight green boxers. Honestly, he thought angrily, twisting a packet of sugar between his fingers to distract himself, it was just inconsiderate of Tsitsipas to put footage like that out there with no regard for how it might affect other people. Just because he was self-absorbed didn’t mean everyone else wanted to look at him all the time. Sascha didn’t even understand how anyone could find someone that arrogant attractive, even if they did have thighs that looked as though they’d been sculpted by the gods.

He was staring moodily out at the grey drizzle and contemplating Tsitsipas’s musculature when Mischa returned, holding a mug of coffee and two blueberry and almond muffins. Flopping back down in his seat, he pushed one across the table at Sascha. “Here.”

“What’s this for?” Sascha frowned, feeling a twinge of guilt for snapping at Mischa.

Mischa shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.”

“Thanks,” Sascha mumbled, touched. He picked it up and unwrapped it, suddenly realising how hungry he was. He’d been so het up last night after the traumatising mistimed erection incident that he’d forgotten to eat dinner, and had slept so badly he hadn’t had time to grab breakfast that morning. It hadn’t bugged him much at the time, his stomach too knotted up to want to eat – but the warm, sweet smell of blueberry and cinnamon was mouth-watering.

“Meesh, do you think about the matches you’ve lost?” he asked, breaking off a chunk of muffin and trying to look casual. “Y’know, afterwards.”

Mischa took a bite of his own, considering. “Sure. Depends on the loss. Sometimes I’m fine and over it after my shower. Sometimes it’s all I can think of until I play another one.”

Relief flooded Sascha’s body, and he stuffed a large piece of muffin into his mouth in celebration.

It was all going to be okay. Thinking about opponents was all just part of the process, and Mischa did it too. It was completely normal that he couldn’t get Tsitsipas’s stupid face and stupid toned thighs out of his head. Completely and utterly normal.

All he needed was to play his next match and everything would be okay again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say thank you thank you thank you for all the lovely comments on this fic! <3 They really mean so much. I'm sorry it's been forever since I posted an update - this isn't the main fic I'm working on, it's just a fun, silly little side project that's a fun distraction from time to time. There's one more chapter for this (almost complete!), and I'll try my best to have it up really soon. Hope you enjoy, and as always comments truly make my day, I love hearing what you all think about these two and their ridiculousness <3

Much to Sascha’s distress, any hopes of playing his next match as soon as possible and ridding his brain of all Tsitsipas-related thoughts were rudely thwarted by the ATP calendar. He and Mischa had arrived in Basel, but the tournament didn’t start for another two days and when they weren’t training, Sascha had nothing to do except pace restlessly and try to resist the urge to open YouTube.

Self-control had never been one of his strong points, which was why he managed all of forty minutes after getting back from the practice before pulling out his laptop and giving in. It was just – he needed to remind himself of what he was up against, alright? If he got to the quarters there was a chance he might end up playing Tsitsipas, and this was just research. Everyone did research on their opponents to make sure they had the best chance of beating them. It was just common sense.

Not that there was a lot of tennis going on in “UNPLUG”, but it was definitely still relevant. Who knew when it might come in useful to know how good Tsitsipas was at diving? Or climbing cliffs half-naked? Clearly this was potentially vital information to have about a rival.

“Sasch,” Mischa said gently from somewhere over Sascha’s shoulder, and Sascha startled wildly, pulling his headphones out and clicking out of YouTube as fast as possible. “D’you think – maybe it’s time to consider the fact you don’t actually hate Tsitsipas?”

“Of course I hate him,” Sascha spluttered, determinedly ignoring the way his cheeks were burning.

Mischa crossed the room, sat down on the edge of the bed and raised an eyebrow.

“I do!” Sascha protested. “He’s – he’s ridiculous,” he sneered defensively, “He talks almost exclusively in clichéd motivational quotes, his backhand is utter shit and his hair – have you seen his goddamn hair, Meesh? If he doesn’t sleep in curlers to achieve that tousled, underwear model, just-rolled-out-of-bed look I’ll eat my tennis racquet. The special limited edition one.”

Mischa didn’t say anything in response to this tirade, merely looked at Sascha with a long-suffering look of something that was halfway between amusement and pity. “Sasch.”

“What?” Sascha demanded, feeling his cheeks flush.

“You’re watching him take his clothes off,” Mischa said, quite kindly.

“I’m – he’s about to go swimming,” Sascha blustered, jaw clenched. “Who swims with their clothes on? It’s part of the video.”

“A lot of his videos seem to involve him wearing minimal clothes,” Mischa remarked.

“I know, it’s because he’s ridiculously arrogant,” Sascha blustered.

“Well, at least you have one thing in common,” Mischa grinned.

Sascha opened his mouth to retort, but on-screen Tsitsipas emerged glistening and golden from the sea and Sascha found his motor skills temporarily impaired.

“Oh Christ, I’m not staying to watch this,” Mischa rolled his eyes and got up. “Look, I just came to let you know we’re having dinner with Dominic and a few of the guys later. Try not to be late.”

“Who’s a few of the guys?” Sascha tore his gaze away from the screen, eyes narrowed.

“I’m not sure,” Mischa shrugged, “Maybe Fabio and Grigor, Nick if he’s around.” He suddenly grinned. “Don’t worry, no one who vlogs.”

Sascha scowled. “I wasn’t worried.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Mischa grinned wider, “Have you checked you aren’t signed into YouTube? People can see if you’ve viewed their videos, you know.”

Sascha made sarcastic _ha ha_ noises until Mischa left, and then spent the next fifteen minutes panic-googling how to remove your view history from YouTube.

-

Basel was a disaster. Sascha didn’t make it past the second round, so there wasn’t any chance of meeting Tsitsipas in the quarters. He hung around until the tournament was done, but was grateful when he could finally fly home. At least there would be no Tsitsipas there. Sascha heaved a sigh of relief as he climbed the familiar stairs of his building, basking in the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to see or think about Tsitsipas for at least a whole two weeks. Everything could go back to normal and he’d stop dreaming about the goddamn vlogs and Mischa would stop throwing him knowing looks at every possible opportunity. It was all going to be fine.

However, as Sascha made his way down the hall, he suddenly realised there was someone coming towards him. Tall, graceful, soft golden curls that were upsettingly reminiscent of Tsitsipas’s. He felt his heart start thumping in his chest.

For all of two seconds, Sascha thought that he’d actually gone mad was hallucinating Greek tennis players. But then to his horror he realised it _was_ Stefanos Tsitsipas, walking dreamily along the sun-soaked hallway, his golden curls soft and smile peaceful as though he were in one of his vlogs somewhere in the glittering Mediterranean. Only he wasn’t. He was in Sascha’s building. In front of Sascha’s front door.

“You,” Sascha blurted out, and Tsitsipas stirred from his tranquillity to give Sascha an unruffled, inquisitive look. Sascha felt as though his brain had vacated his body. Tsitsipas was here, _here_ in Sascha’s building, in Sascha’s space. “What – you. This is my building,” he blurted out defensively.

“The whole thing?” Stefanos raised his eyebrows good-humouredly. Sascha had no idea why he was being treated to good humour. Perhaps it was to unnerve him. It was working. He certainly didn’t deserve it. “I know you have a lot of trophies but do you really need quite so many rooms?”

Sascha couldn’t think of a single witty thing to say, so instead he said: “I have more than you.”

“Rooms or trophies?” Stefanos grinned easily, as though he were aware of the affect he was having on Sascha. The grin was even more dazzling close up than it was in the vlogs.

“Both,” Sascha said defensively. He studiously ignored the way his knees felt a little weak.

Stefanos shrugged, unbothered. “Probably,” he conceded. “I only have three rooms here.”

“You live – here?”

“Yes”

“But – _I _live here,” Sascha blurted out, horror rising at the prospect of Tsitsipas being constantly in his immediate vicinity.

“Here, in the hall?” Stefanos quirked an eyebrow, amusement pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Surely with all your trophies you can afford more than that.”

Sascha scowled. “No. There,” he gestured vaguely behind him.

“Ah,” Tsitsipas nodded knowledgeably. He gestured towards the other end of the hall with an equally vague sort of motion. Sascha dimly registered the possibility that he was being mocked. “I live down there. We’re neighbours,” he grinned, “How wonderful.”

Wonderful was not the phrase that came to mind for Sascha. He stared uncomprehendingly at Tsitsipas before several moments, before letting out a slightly strangled sound and diving for his front door. Once inside, he leant wearily against it as his heart pounded and pounded, trying dazedly to make sense of the last few minutes. After he’d remembered how breathing worked well enough to stop feeling dizzy, he peered out of the peephole – but the hallway was deserted.

Maybe Sascha had imagined him. He felt like it wasn't a good sign that at this point that would be the preferable option. 

-

As it turned out, Sascha had not imagined him. This rapidly became clear when Sascha was awoken the following morning by a knock at the door because when he stumbled blearily to answer it, Tsitsipas was standing cheerfully on the doorstep. He was wearing a faded white t-shirt which pulled across the broad planes of muscle in his chest and his hair was artfully tousled, as though maybe he’d just got up too.

“What are you doing here?” Sascha demanded defensively, crossing his arms across his chest. His heart was beating uncomfortably fast, and he eyed his laptop guiltily across the room as though it would suddenly spring open of its own accord and start playing Tsitsipas’s vlogs at top volume.

Tsitsipas didn’t seem remotely put off by this hostility. “Good morning,” he smiled, and oh god, it was brighter in reality than it was in any of the vlogs. Sascha swallowed. “I was wondering if I could use your kettle? Mine’s broken and I’m an absolute nightmare until I get my green tea.”

He seemed to take Sascha’s horrified silence for an invitation, and peered into the flat, wandering towards the open-space kitchen. Sascha stared dazedly through the open front doorway as he heard the tap running and the kettle click on.

“Your flat’s nicer than mine,” Tsitsipas remarked lightly, looking around with interest as though he were on a Caribbean island or a forest in France instead of Sascha’s living room. He smiled, and it killed Sascha that Tsitsipas looked at him as though he were that interesting too. “I like the way you get the first sun of the day in this room.”

“I’m sure your flat has windows too,” Sascha muttered moodily, arms folded. He closed the front door reluctantly and made his way over to the kitchen.

Stefanos grinned widely at this, as though Sascha was funny instead of sleep deprived and the midst of some kind of long drawn out existential crisis that he himself was the cause of. “Of course. But I don’t get the dawn light like this, I get the sunsets instead. I think I’d prefer the dawn, it feels more motivational and I always feel most inspired in the early morning anyway. Isn’t it strange how different times of day make us different people?”

Sascha grunted, grabbing two mugs from the cupboard. “Mischa says I’m not bearable as a human being until mid-afternoon, so I guess you must be right.”

“I think it’s fascinating what makes people morning or evening people, do you think it’s inbuilt or is it to do with our surroundings?” Stefanos asked, as though he was genuinely interested in what Sascha thought. He was leaning against the counter, broad shoulders and long tanned arms folded against the white of his t-shirt. Sascha swallowed.

“Uh – your guess is as good as mine,” he mumbled, dropping his gaze. He eyed the kettle edgily, willing it to hurry up and boil. Perhaps not all the deities hated him, because it did and Sascha grabbed it almost before the light clicked off, poured it into the two mugs on the counter just for something to do. Grudgingly, he pushed one of the mugs towards Tsitsipas.

“Thanks,” Stefanos smiled, and it was a soft smile, one that made the corners of his eyes crinkle up and a little dimple appear on his cheek. Sascha suddenly had to try not to drop the kettle.

“I always like to do my vlogs in the morning best,” Stefanos was saying, blowing gently on his tea. His tousled curls fell into his eyes and he brushed them away impatiently, looking up earnestly at Sascha. “There’s something infinite about the possibilities at that time of day.”

Sascha felt himself flushing deep red at the mention of the vlogs. “I’d hate to make videos,” he mumbled, “I like my life to be mine, there’s enough of being watched in the media.”

“Oh but it’s so different,” Stefanos said earnestly, “Because I get to choose what’s in them, not like with the press. It’s really liberating.” He tucks a curl behind one ear, looks intently at Sascha and it takes all of Sascha’s concentration not to choke on his tea. Mercifully, he was saved from having to formulate a response by the sound of keys in the lock and Mischa coming in.

“Sasch, you really should lock your door,” Mischa was saying – but he promptly stopped short when he sees Stefanos standing there.

Stefanos seemed to take this as his cue to leave. “Well, thanks for the tea. See you later, Sascha Zverev,” Stefanos said with a grin, smiling at Mischa’s bewildered expression. “Hello, other Zverev,” he added, waving cheerfully. He was still sipping tea from Sascha’s French Open mug as he wandered out of the door as though he breezed in and out of Sascha’s space on a daily basis.

As soon as the door closed behind him Mischa turned and stared in bewilderment at Sascha. “Tsitsipas was in your flat. It’s eight in the morning, and Tsitsipas was in your flat. And I think he’s stolen your mug.”

Sascha could feel his cheeks burning. “It’s fine, I can easily get another, they give those things out free by the dozen. I’ve got a whole bunch somewhere.”

“Fuck the mugs,” Mischa said evenly, eyebrows raised. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“What would I want to tell you?” Sascha demanded defensively. “His kettle broke and he barged in here and commandeered mine. And my teabags, actually. He didn’t even say thank you.”

Mischa looked rather as though he wanted to hit Sascha or himself with the racquet he was holding. “Sascha,” he said wearily, and then stopped in defeat, shrugged his shoulders.

“What?” Sascha said feebly. He took a gulp of tea even though it was too hot, and tried not to notice the way the flat still smelt faintly of Tsitsipas’s aftershave.

Sometimes, he sort of wished Mischa wasn’t such a nice brother and would just hit him with the racquet. At least if he was knocked out he wouldn't be able to think about Stefanos Tsitsipas and how he looked even more beautiful close up than he did in his vlogs or across the net. 

"Never mind," Mischa sighed, "Put your stuff on and let's go. Jez is waiting." 

Grateful to have anything else to think about, Sascha obediently dressed and he and Mischa made their way to the gym. Jez's workout ended up being so gruelling that Sascha didn't have time to think about Stefanos Tsitsipas drinking tea in his kitchen, and he managed to banish all thoughts of him during lunch too because Mischa had brought Junior along. By the end of the afternoon, Sascha was just starting to think it might all be okay, that maybe he wasn't going insane after all.

But when he got home, there a French Open mug sitting on his doorstep with a little blue flower in it. The hallway was deserted, but the flower was pretty and fresh, like it had just been picked. Sascha stared at it uncomprehendingly for several moments before realising he was smiling. 

He was so, so fucked.


End file.
